Adore the beta readers. I do.

"Hate sand," Clint grumbled. "Hate the sun, hate the heat."

"Hate listening to all the bitching," Coulson's voice made Clint grimly smile. "Status."

"Hot. In place, no sign of people." Clint took a deep drink of water. "What took you so long?"

"Emergencies wait for nobody, and I knew you'd be able to pull this off without somebody holding your hand. Targets have reportedly not left yet, but there's some activity going on that suggests they'll be leaving later on today."

"Good." Clint balefully eyed a bug that was getting a little too close for his liking. "Because this sucks."

"Right. Don't get in any fights with the local fauna. Check back in a couple hours; I'm taking a nap."

Snorting, Clint pulled his book from his backpack. "Lazy. What's fauna?"

"Animals and insects. Coulson's already snoring." The pilot's report had Clint laughing. "Which means you actually won the pot that he'd fall asleep this time, along with a few others. How's that sunburn coming?"

"Hope that it isn't. Barton out." Clint shifted slightly in the sand and focused on his book.

Clint stumbled as he tried to climb into the jet. His mouth felt like he'd swallowed a pound of sand and his tongue felt at least twice its normal size. "Hey," he wheezed. "Water?" He let his pack drop and gently set his bow down, glad to be out of the sun. "Next time, wait in jet."

Coulson held out a bottle and carefully watched as Clint cracked it open, sparing a glance at the two burning cars. "If it's possible. Sip it. Slowly. How long were you without water?"

"Little over a day?" Clint gently shook his head. "I think?" He couldn't restrain himself and chugged the entire bottle. He immediately realized his mistake as his body rebelled, barely making it to the door in time. "Shit," he groaned, slumping against the side of the jet. He'd thought that he was sore, now it was even worse and his headache intensified. The realization that he had Coulson there to watch his back let him finally acknowledge the bone-deep fatigue that he was feeling.

"Back into the jet, Clint," Coulson carefully coaxed the archer into a seat and moved up to tap the pilot on the shoulder. "Punch it. Have Medical waiting when we get there." Grabbing at the first aid kit, he knelt down in front of Clint and pulled out a couple cold packs. "Clint," he shook his head when the only response was a curious hum. "Want to cool you down some. It can't hurt. Leave these in place, okay?"

Clint jumped when he felt Coulson stick the cold packs on his neck. The sudden shock gave him enough energy to open his eyes. "Huh? Oh. Sure."

"I'll wait until you're not suffering from dehydration and who knows what else to ask you why you didn't let me know you were out of water," Coulson said. "Haven't you seen an environment like this before?"

"Nnn," Clint groaned. "No. Ow. Can I take a nap?"

"Rather you didn't, but you can lie down." Coulson guided Clint to lie down on the floor of the jet, pulling off his jacket and tucking it under the younger man's head. Finding the book in Clint's bag, Coulson settled next to the archer and started reading out loud, occasionally glancing down to make sure that Clint was still awake. Rubbing his face, he winced at the realization that he had managed to get sunburned. How, he didn't know. "Clint, still with me?" At the archer's low grumble, Coulson just nodded and hoped that this was as bad as it was going to get. A sudden thought hit him, and he opened another bottle of water, pouring some into the lid. "Here, Clint. Little bit at a time. Open up."

"Agent Barton, what happened? Meg." The doctor didn't wait for Clint's answer as he bent down and taped a probe to Clint's finger.

Clint grunted as the nurse cut his sleeve up to his shoulder, hearing Coulson answer. He'd been kept awake during the flight and after the first little bit of water he'd started to feel sick again; all he cared about was sleeping. He felt her tie the tourniquet around his arm and braced himself for the pinch of the needle. When he felt Meg's hand resting on his arm a lot longer than he remembered it taking in the past, he mustered the energy to open his eyes. "Huh?"

"You're pretty dehydrated, Clint. You're bleeding slowly and…there. Done with that part. Be happy that I was lucky to have gotten this on the first try." Clint just closed his eyes. "Doctor, think two lines?"

"No, I'm not that worried. When he's more with it, see how he feels about eating though."

Clint let the words wash over him, enjoying the cool sensation of the IV fluids running into his arm. Already starting to feel a little better, he tried to sit up. Hands on his shoulders kept him from making it all the way.

"Nope." Meg's tone was light. "Let me be the one in charge here; I know you don't feel too good. So just follow my instructions and we'll get you inside and in a real bed in a flash, okay? Maybe some ice; your mouth is probably feeling pretty disgusting?"

"Yeah," Clint breathed the word out. "Tired too."

"You look it. Let's get you onto the stretcher." Meg lightly patted Clint's shoulder as soon as he'd stretched out on the gurney and she'd tossed a sheet over him. "Better?"

Clint didn't respond, rolling over as much as he could and falling asleep.

When he woke up, he was almost feeling like normal; things had mostly stopped hurting and he felt like he actually wanted something to eat. Yawning as he sat up, he glanced around the room. Feeling unsettled when he discovered that there wasn't anybody there, he grabbed at the call bell. Drawing his knees to his chest, Clint tried to tell himself to calm down and stared at the door.

It felt like an eternity before Darla walked through the door. "Morning, sunshine!" She chirped, then glanced at her watch. "Yep, morning. Technically. Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Clint winced at the harshness of his voice. His mouth was still dry. "Can I maybe, yanno, get out of bed?" Darla frowned and Clint felt a sinking feeling in his chest. "Or not. I'll watch TV or something. And I'm hungry."

"Let me check a couple things," Darla said carefully, "I think that won't be a problem, if you'd like to come eat at the desk. Doctor James is still asleep, so you'll have to wait until later to be released."

"Cool." Clint relaxed. "Why'd all this happen?"

"Why do you think?" Darla sat down on the bed. "Not enough water means dehydration. If it gets too bad, you can get really sick or even die. There's a saying that you can go three days without water, but people generally ignore the little asterisk at the end of the phrase: dependent on the situation. A hot desert in the sun, like where you were, means that you don't get nearly as much leeway with not drinking anything." Reaching out, she rested her hand on top of Clint's foot and gave it a light squeeze. "So next time?"

"Next time I'll bring even more water. Somehow." Clint responded to the touch by sliding his foot down the bed some, closer to the nurse. "Or say when I'm out? Dunno, I had to wait a couple days for my target to show. We knew where he was going to be, but not exactly when. But I really thought I had enough, and it wasn't totally safe for the jet to hang around close since it wasn't exactly a friendly place. I had to hike over the border."

"How much did you bring? And how much did you eat?" Darla glanced at the IV bag next to Clint's bed before standing up and starting to change it. "That probably didn't help matters much."

"Eh, couple gallons," Clint shrugged. "Wasn't really hungry. But I made the shot, that's what matters." He jumped slightly as the nurse firmly tapped him on the top of his head with a knuckle. "What?"

"What matters, Mister, is that you stay healthy while doing your job, since I know of at least four people that would be very upset if you died." Darla glanced at the door. "So, you're sitting up, did you feel dizzy when you did?" When Clint just shook his head, she nodded. "Going to help you get up, then, and tell me if you do start feeling funny. Your head is hard enough that it can handle getting thwacked, but it looks bad on my record if I let people fall. But you probably want real clothes, not a hospital gown."

Clint let the nurse help him stand up and follow him to the bathroom, but when she started to unsnap the shoulder of his gown, he shook his head. "Don't." He pressed himself against the wall when she gave him a firm look and put a finger on his chest.

"Knife. Several years old, based on the color and texture. You're lucky to be here because if it had punctured a lung, you'd've probably been dead." She pushed deeper. "Hit a rib; bet that hurt, yeah?" She moved her finger. "Again, knife, several years old. Gut can be tricky; hit an artery and again, you're dead. Hit the intestines and you're fighting infection." She slid her hand around to Clint's back. "This one probably just missed your kidney. Somebody really did a number on you, didn't they?"

Clint didn't relax. "I said no. He got mad. How'd you know all that?" He eyed the nurse suspiciously.

"I was an inner-city trauma nurse in a city with violence problems so I've seen a few knife wounds and more than my share of scars, and who do you think helped get you into that gown?" Darla sadly smiled. "Hard to forget the big tough guys with more tattoos than bare skin getting scared when I told them that I had to start an IV."

"When was that?" Clint shifted further away from the nurse when she reached for his shoulder again. "I'm not a kid. I can get changed myself."

Darla pointed at his IV. "I know you can. But that isn't set up so that I can just disconnect the line easily – Meg likes her tape jobs – so unless you happen to be an expert at feeding IV bags through long sleeves, you'll need some help." Stepping back, she nodded. "Compromise. Let me know when I can come back in and help you with a shirt. Promise me that you won't try it on your own? I don't want to make you go through another IV stick if you don't have to, and you have to keep on getting fluids until Doctor James gives the okay to stop them. How old were you?"

"You answer my question first." Clint started to move to where he remembered clothing being kept. A light tug on his arm had him stopping. "Um."

"Sixties and seventies. Look at me, Clint." Clint reluctantly shifted his gaze from the wall to her face. "Promise that you'll let me help you out?"

"I've learned how to do it." Clint shook his head. "And it isn't hard, even one-handed." With a stubborn look at the nurse, he added, "I've always had to do this stuff on my own. Only here have you nurses actually, yanno, helped. All the ones I had before I came here only heard what the pol-" he cut himself off, still trying to figure out where the urge to just start talking came from. "They just didn't seem to care."

"It takes work to look beyond the police reports and criminal records to see the person, true." Darla sighed. "We're only human, after all. But you're a good man, Clint, if a little stubborn. I'll be waiting outside, let me know if you need any help."

Clint waited until the door clicked shut before swiftly locking it and moving to stare in the mirror. "Stop talking, Barton," he muttered as he roughly pulled off the hospital gown. "Nobody needs to know this stuff. It's not relevant." Pulling on the pants he found and skipping socks, he scowled and roughly ran his hand through his hair. "But that's the problem. You like them. How they're acting." He sighed, suddenly feeling confused. "Wonder if this is what having a real family is like. Besides, worst they can do is ditch you and it isn't like you haven't had experience with that before. And Coulson said to run with it." Straightening up and reaching for a towel, he nodded. "Okay then." Pulling the door open, he asked, "Hey, do you have more tape?"

Curiously, Darla nodded and pulled a roll out of her pocket. "Always have tape." She watched closely as he tore a couple pieces off. "Well, I haven't seen that before."

Clint just let the corner of his mouth turn up as he taped the IV tubing to his shoulder. "I used band-aids for this in prison, since it was easier to get a couple of those than a roll of tape. Plus, they allowed for some more movement in the tubing so it wasn't always pulling on me. And I didn't have to deal with sleeves and a bag of whatever that wouldn't fit through them." Sliding on a sweatshirt, he shrugged. "Food?"

"Answer my question, too?" Darla grabbed the IV stand. "But we can see if Susan will run over to the Mess Hall for you."

Clint didn't try to stop the words this time. "16. Then went to juvie until I was 18. Got in a lotta fights there and ended up getting hurt a few times."

"I bet," Darla nodded as they approached the nursing station. "Susan, can you go get some food for Agent Barton, please? Toast and juice."

"Thanks," Clint said with a grin. The tech giggled and ran off.

"Heartbreaker." Darla's voice was dry. "Few more questions, mister, because I'm still trying to figure it all out. What's wrong?"

"It's three in the morning, I'm wide awake, I've got to sit through a post-mission session with Beeks, I've got mission debriefs, and I didn't finish a paper that's due tomorrow. Today?"

Darla looked at Clint skeptically. "What's wrong with Doctor Beeks? And it's Tuesday."

"I don't know. I mean, he hasn't done anything that would make me not want to talk to him, but it's like there's this little voice in the back of my head that's telling me that he's just going to screw me over like everybody has in the past and it's awkward talking to him even about all that post-mission crap." Rubbing the back of his neck, Clint finished, "And yeah, I do trust people here but it's still hard, you know? Sometimes I still can't believe that I trust Coulson as much as I do."

"Come here, you." Darla carefully stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "So your brain is messing with your brain, huh?"

Clint relaxed into the hug and let her tuck his head under her chin. He felt happy at the lack of instant rejection and decided that it was nice that Darla was as tall as she was. "You 'n Meg are easier. Doesn't make any sense."

"It makes a lot of sense to me." Darla gently started rubbing the back of Clint's neck. "Beeks is a guy. Who was the first man to actually show you some real, unconditional respect?"

"Coulson," Clint started to feel overwhelmed by emotions and blinked back tears. "Sometimes wish he was my real dad. Yeah, I know he's too young but he doesn't act it. Jacques taught me a lot 'nd then got mad. He ended up getting caught by the Feds. Coulson told me he's serving 25 to 30." He bitterly laughed. "Part of me wants to go break in there and show him what it feels like to be, be…"

"Betrayed?" Darla's voice was calm. "Hold on one second, Clint, I think Susan's coming back with your snack." Clint didn't move, not that Darla would let him. "Thank you, Susan, why don't you go see if anybody else needs some help."

Suppressing a yawn, Clint turned his head slightly to see the tech and smiled. "Thanks for the food." He watched as she blushed and ran off. "Huh."

"Shy smiles from cute operatives get her anytime. Don't worry, she won't follow you around. Talk to her friends about how cute you are? If they aren't already doing that, then they certainly will be after tonight." Darla sounded amused. "Although if you ever wanted to practice flirting, she'd be a good target. Now, back to what's-his-name. You could, but what would that accomplish? Not a lot, probably. If you really want to see him punished, go talk to people at the prison, find out when he's up for parole and talk then. Especially if you look successful, that will help."

Clint couldn't help it. "The suit?" he whined, mentally wincing at how he was acting.

"Doesn't have to be a suit," Darla laughed and let him go. "Let me show you what some of the younger nurses were giggling over the other day while you eat your toast. Slowly." Reaching over on the desk, she picked up a box of tissues. "Here. Tears and a shy smile? I'm surprised that she didn't pass out!"

Clint laughed then, still feeling like his emotions were out of control. "I don't understand?" Roughly swiping at his eyes, he made a face. "I feel all weird."

"Weird how?" Darla firmly pushed Clint into a chair and knelt in front of him. "Headache, chest pain, hurting anywhere else? Feel like you're going to pass out? Puke?"

"No." Clint shook his head. "Well, a headache. Better than earlier though. It's just that I feel like I want to laugh and cry and I'm confused."

"Ah. Definitely no school for you today, and drink your juice." Darla reached up and Clint watched as she increased the drip rate on his IV. "Did you know that mood swings and anxiety can also come from being dehydrated?" She winked at Clint. "I was reading up on it; you and all my other patients were asleep and Agent Coulson left an hour or so ago, muttering about a shower and more sand than a man should ever have to see. I suspect that once he got out of the shower, he may have tripped and fallen into his bed." Glancing around, she whispered, "I gave him decaf and a sleeping pill. Don't tell."

"Oh." Clint didn't know what to think. "Okay?"

"You know what? Grab your snack and go back to your room. I'm going to get Susan back to man the desk, and we can talk some more with you in your bed, okay? And I'm not seeing you drinking your juice, young man." At her look, Clint grabbed the cup and downed it all. "Good. Now go, I'll be right in with something for your head."

Clint had fallen asleep with the nurse gently running her fingers through his hair, and when he woke up next Beeks was sitting in the chair next to the bed reading a book. "Hey, Clint. Figured I'd catch you here instead of making you sit in my office. Unless you want to go someplace else, but we need to stay inside Medical since Doctor James hasn't released you yet."

"I've got school," Clint said as he sat up with a yawn. Pulling his knees to his chest, he picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "And a paper to turn in, even though I didn't finish it."

"It's almost noon. Knees down, Clint." The psychiatrist reached out and lightly tapped Clint's leg. "I want you to try talking to me without curling up in a ball. I know you don't like this, but trying to protect yourself and hide like that doesn't help anybody." When Clint didn't move, he sighed and stood up. Sitting at the foot of the bed, Beeks gently ordered, "Clint, one leg down and look at me. You're being irrational and paranoid. Has anybody here, who wasn't actively betraying SHIELD, done anything to hurt you?"

"They will," Clint muttered, lowering one leg slightly. "Eventually."

"And you now automatically think the worst of everybody because of a few people?" Beeks let his frustration show. "Clint, would you damn well look at me and tell me what your damn problem is?"

Clint's head shot up when he heard Beeks slap the bed. Meeting Beeks' eyes, he was startled to see the hurt in them. "It's just…you know," forced its way out. "I, I can't."

"Frankly, Clint, I expect this from a child, not from a grown man. And no, I don't know. Stop using that phrase with the goal of not answering a question. Not to mention, it isn't that you can't, it's that you won't. Big difference there." Beeks watched with satisfaction as Clint's other leg slowly lowered and the archer leaned forward. "I'm not going to clear you for another mission yet. No, I think your time will be better served by talking to me. Hopefully in a couple months you'll be able to go back out again."

"That's not fair!" Clint burst out. "You agreed! Mission stuff only!"

"I'm allowed to step in if I think that missions might be affected, and I'm thinking that they might start to be. Think about it." Nodding sharply, Beeks patted Clint's leg and stood up. "Come see me whenever you're allowed to leave."

"No." Clint glared at Beeks. "You're asking me to change me. I've been like this all my life, I can't just change it because you want me to." Eyeing the smug smile he was being given, he finished, "You're a bastard."

"No, I'm not. My parents were quite happily married since well before I was born." Beeks firmly shut the door and returned to sit on the bed. "I am trying to help you get over some of the hang-ups that you have. I don't care about getting you to go out and party with people. I want you to realize that you're stuck with us-"

"I know I'm stuck with you," Clint interrupted.

"And that you've got more resources available to you than just talking with Phil because frankly, he's not able to do the things I do." Beeks ignored Clint. "That's not changing who you are in here and here." Firmly poking Clint in the chest and forehead, he sat back. "I also want you to realize that you had a shitty past which you're hanging onto far too much that screwed you up more than you realize. It's my life, Clint, to help people out. I didn't become a psychiatrist simply because it's a common theme in my family, I did so because I could help people. You need my help."

"You're saying that I 'need' help. What if I don't want it?" Clint shoved himself backwards on the bed. "I know I had a shitty, fucked-up life before I came here. What if I'm happy just being the way that I am?"

"Are you? Are you really, truly happy?" Beeks folded his arms over his chest and firmly stared at Clint. "With only a few exceptions, you're so determined to keep people at a distance to protect yourself that you're about to really mess something up, Clint. Mission, something here, you. Maybe more than one. And probably in a really big way, too."

"I can do my job," Clint snapped. "Being happy doesn't have anything to do with it. Friends don't have anything to do with it. I do what I'm told. And it works for me, I have fun in my life, and it's better than anything else I can remember. So anybody who tells me different can just fuck off. That includes you."

"That A.I.M. mission. I heard rumors that you were getting into it with the team leader until somebody broke it up, and that there were a few tense moments actually on the mission because of all the in-fighting. You told me about that. You can't put it all on other people, Clint, because at least half of it was from you. Yes, the way that you met wasn't ideal, but then you didn't back off when you should have. This past mission; you didn't even think about letting Phil know that you were out of water, which landed you in here. Want me to continue?" Beeks didn't try to hide his frustration. "You're not happy. You say you are, but you aren't. And what's that about friends?"

"Can I have something to eat?" Clint avoided the question.

A meal bar was tossed in his lap. "Here. I'm tired of playing games with you, so it stops, right now. Will you just answer my damn question?"

"Friends just hurt you in the end." Grabbing at the bar, Clint rapidly unwrapped it and took a large bite. "Never needed 'em and it's easier without. Fuck people." He narrowly glared at the shrink as he watched Beeks lean back with a grim smile. "And fuck you."

"And there's a core hurt. Thank you, Clint, for finally telling me that. Your father doesn't deserve the honor of being called your father and he took your mother away. Your mother died, leaving you and your brother alone. Your brother hurt you, your first mentor hurt you, somebody you were growing close to here hurt you. All I know about the pre-circus years is that you spent a few of them in an orphanage, which probably wasn't the best experience, and now you automatically think that people will hurt you. Do you think that maybe, just maybe, we can talk like civilized adults for a bit now? I'll even let you have a real meal."

"Fuck you," Clint hissed. "Maybe I don't deserve any of that good stuff."

"Like food? Okay." Beeks shrugged and pushed the call bell. "Although I happen to disagree; nobody's at their best when they're hungry and I don't think a single meal bar is enough to feed you. Being happy and having healthy interpersonal relationships? My job is now to try and convince you that you do deserve all that and maybe even have you figure out why you're thinking that way. And," he leaned forward as Meg entered the room with a meal tray, "I'm giving you a conditional clearance, understand? You work with me, stay honest, and at least try to understand that I'm not going to turn around and abandon you or sing everything over the PA, and I'll allow you out for missions, let you live your life. Clear?"

"Fuck you," Clint scowled as Meg lightly patted his shoulder and left. "Do I have a choice?"

Beeks just shook his head. "No, you don't. And if I have my way, you won't if I deem it necessary from a purely psychiatric standpoint. And would you please figure out something else to say? You're getting repetitive."

"Bathroom." Clint carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Touch my dessert, all bets are off. And leave my mom out of it. I don't remember much, and a lotta what I do remember is that she wasn't really the type of mom that you read about in books or see on TV, but she was still my mom. You don't say shit about her."

"How about that it's a damn shame she died? That she obviously had some influence on your life? You're sounding pretty damn protective of a person you can't remember."

Beeks almost missed Clint's quiet "fuck off" as the bathroom door gently clicked shut. He glanced at Meg as she returned with another tray.

"Told you," she said dryly. "Darla and I get the whole story through being nice, you have to push him probably harder than you've ever pushed anybody before." Holding out a second tray, she nodded. "If you want something to eat; if not, Clint will eat it. Growing boys and all that. Let me know when I can come in and do my nursing thing since I want to get his IV pulled, and Doctor James will be here one-ish, he said, unless he gets waylaid by an emergency. Think that's enough time?"

"Maybe. Remind me again why I joined this chicken-scratch operation?" Beeks took the tray, glancing down at it as Meg laughed. "Ignore the yelling please, and if Phil shows up keep him distracted. And I'll pull his IV for you; I don't want anybody else to come in until I've gotten to a certain point." He groaned. "However long it takes."

"Darla slipped him a strong enough sleeper last night that he's probably still out. And really, sir, don't say anything else about the women in his life? Leave that to us. Darla's said that he willingly talked to her last night about his time in juvie. I think that the two of us have successfully hit 'safe' mode with him."

"Good. But I can't promise that, sorry. I hate having to act like this, but since it seems to be working faster and better than my other options, at least a little…" With a sigh, Beeks nodded at the nurse. "Back into the fray I go."

Clint slowly emerged from the bathroom. "Damn."

"Sorry, not that lucky. However, I didn't touch your food, and I'll even let you have some of mine if you try to stay calm. Clear?" Beeks' tone didn't leave any room for negotiation. "However, let's get you disconnected from that IV. Meg said that you didn't need it anymore."

"At least somebody is being nice," Clint muttered as he pulled off his sweatshirt. Carefully starting to peel the tape off as he walked back towards the bed, he stopped when the psychiatrist suddenly moved to stand in front of him. "I can do it."

"Don't think you want to bleed all over the place." Beeks held out a cotton ball. "And would you let somebody do something for you for once? It really is okay for you to accept help from people because they want to. Okay? Now. Any delays or distractions that you try to pull will just result in even more meetings, if not me pulling all your clearances. You'll be at school or in my office during waking hours, in that case."

Clint didn't respond as he felt his arm being grabbed. Tensing up, he shook his head. "You're an ass."

"Well, you're an ass too," Beeks retorted. "Only way for me to get through to you, it seems. So get your ass back into bed and eat your lunch. I'm going to talk, you're going to listen, and you're going to answer my questions. I'm going to make you think, Clint, and put your brain through a workout the likes of which it's probably never had before. Understand? My goal, which I'm telling you right now and I'll put it in writing, is to get that little boy in your head to stop affecting the man who is standing right in front of me. Get you to fully understand, subconsciously, that nothing was your fault. Frankly, I'm not worried about how you're doing after this last mission because you generally don't have problems, so the hell with that. Sit down."

Beeks slipped out of the room, shooting a rueful smile at Meg and Doctor James. "Meg, Mark," he nodded. "All yours. Meg, might want to give him some of those cuddles he says he likes to get from you."

"Oh?" Meg glanced up curiously.

"Managed to rip off more of that 16-year-old scab than I thought that he'd let me. He's not feeling too hot right now and I get to do it again and again and again for who knows how long. Can you two please go do whatever it is you need to do so that Clint can get out of here?" Beeks shook his head, sagging against the desk. "I need a damn drink."

"And I need a damn explanation." Coulson didn't try to hide his anger. "Between the three of you, somebody can tell me just what the hell is going on. And why somebody seemed to feel the need to drug me?"

"What is going on," Beeks roughly rubbed his face, "is that I'm trying to help Clint. If he wants you to know more, he'll tell you. And obviously you needed to sleep, if this is the first time you've shown up here since whenever you left."

"I'll tell you later, Coulson. Don't blame them. I think…I think it was needed?" Clint's uncertain voice had all four turning to stare at the archer as he walked up. "Doc, can I go now? I've got shit to do." Coulson was surprised at the odd look on Clint's face; the archer was clearly trying to think something through.

Clint eyed the psychiatrist as he leaned against Meg. "Doctor Beeks, Monday at one, right? I'll let you know if I want to talk earlier than that." Without waiting for answers, he just turned and wandered off, Meg hurrying behind.

Coulson watched Clint walk away before turning back to the doctors. "Was he crying?"

"A few times." Beeks shrugged. "It's healthy. Mentally and emotionally I've just given him a very solid workout. Two hours of talking; I'm surprised that I still have a voice left. I'm giving him a conditional clearance; he comes to see me at least once a week for the foreseeable future and I'll allow him out. Otherwise I won't clear him and he'll be stuck in my office. He knows that."

"Ah," Coulson nodded. "I see. Please keep me updated." Straightening his shoulders, he stared at the two doctors. "Now. We need to talk about the fact that the night nurse deemed it fit to give me a sleeping pill and tell me it was a painkiller. On whose order was that?"